I took a course last semester entitled Black & Indigenous Women & the Nation, a conversation-style lecture centered on the voices of Afro-descendant and Indigenous Latin American women. At a time when home felt farther than 3,000 miles away, those fifty minutes each week lessened the distance. Their stories–of community, resilience, and womanhood–reminded me of the women of my childhood and echoed lessons I had absorbed long before I could recognize them.
My parents enrolled me and my sister in a Spanish immersion school that we attended from kindergarten until we started high school. From that first day at five years old, I was spoken to entirely in Spanish, as I was introduced to academic subjects in a language different from those spoken at home. But rather than feeling disoriented, I grew to love what that language carried–its warmth, rhythm, and cultural depth.
Years later, when I spoke with friends raised in New England, I began to understand how unusual and formative that education had been. While their lessons led to field trips to Plymouth Rock and the birthplace of Paul Revere, these stories felt distant compared to those of the missions of Northern California and the Indigenous communities whose lives were devastatingly transformed by Spanish colonization.
This learning environment also introduced me to some of the most influential women in my life. My maestras–many of them Latina, immigrants, or daughters of immigrants–carried themselves with a grounded strength I respected and took comfort in.
They taught me how to roll my r’s and conjugate verbs, but also how to navigate a space where I was both an insider and an outsider. In their classrooms, I learned to listen, to observe, and to hold space for stories that were not my own—an enduring lesson in empathy and understanding.
As an Asian-American growing up in a predominantly Latino and white community, these women shaped my earliest understanding of belonging. Regardless of whether you were Mexican, white, or the one Asian kid in class, you listened to artists like Celia Cruz, honored farmworker activists, and read stories from the tribes whose histories shaped the land we lived on. Those shared moments made it clear that culture wasn’t something you had to be born into to appreciate–it was something you were welcomed into.
They showed me that strength can be quiet, leadership can be gentle, and patience can be powerful. I credit them with shaping the way that I understand culture and for introducing me to a world that insists on attention, empathy, and respect–a perspective on life that continues to guide me.